“I’m not going to State. I don’t want to go there. I never did.”
Dad’s mouth drops open. Mom freezes and grips the staircase to keep her steady during the inevitable hurricane that’s about to shred through the house.
“I’m going to Fisher. In Philadelphia. And I’m not going to discuss it anymore tonight.”
I sit back down. Nobody moves for at least two minutes. The rooster timer yells from the kitchen, signaling to my mother that whatever the hell she took the time to cook for this little get-together is ready. I’m alone with him now. He starts pacing the length of the room, stopping to rub his temples and close his eyes. I can feel him about to say something asshole-ish. I’ve gotten really good at it over the years. It’s become one of my senses.
“Don’t ruin this day for me, Dad.”
I stare, just waiting for a reaction. My entire body is rigid and prepared for war. I watch him stand up.
This is it.
I watch him open the door and step outside.
Maybe he’s actually going to completely lose it and beat the shit out of me this time.
Then I watch him get into his car and pull away.
00:00:04.263
I almost forgot for a moment how much I truly love Owen.
He gave me everything.
He taught me how to open up.
He taught me how to have fun.
And he taught me how to love.
I should have had a real conversation with him before I decided to do this.
He deserved it.
Fuck.
I love Owen. And I’m going to die right now, never knowing if we could have made it work.
I know he still loves me.
Fuck.
I don’t want this.
00:00:03.958
An ice cream date
A sharp knock on the door of my dorm room rouses me from a dreadful dream—me, running from a monsoon wave threatening to crash down around me. A pile of semi-dry drool rests on the open pages of my Abnormal Psychology textbook.
Another knock.
“Maura? You in there?”
Owen?
“I came over to steal you away for a short study break. Pretty please open the door. I have a surprise for you…”
I spring up and try my best to tame my matted sleep-hair into a messy bun on top of my head. Owen’s here. The newness of living on our own and having the chance to visit each other’s dorm room at any hour that we want is still thrilling. I may never tire of hearing that sweet voice purr through the crack of my door, begging to come in and snuggle.
We’re thrown into a passionate kiss before I even have a chance to speak. But I don’t care. He tastes like spearmint and stale beer, and I’m immediately awakened. I tug gently on his belt buckle, pulling him into my bedroom and slamming the door with my foot.
“Take a breath and let’s enjoy your present first, little miss frisky.”
“Mint chocolate chip?” I ask, pawing at the paper bag he’s carrying by his side. Owen is notorious for bringing over ice cream when he is making an attempt to get laid, and he always acts like a gentleman when he is politely turned down.
“Of course. It is your favorite, right?”
“Yeah, but where’s your Rocky Road?”
“I didn’t get any. Just Mint Chocolate Chip.”
My mouth drops open. Owen may be an amazing boyfriend, but when it comes to compromising food choices, he is not known to be very lenient.
“But you hate it. You called it neon green vomit.”
“I doubt that,” he sighs as he kisses my ear and runs the tips of his fingers under my sweater and over my bra.
“I would never forget someone saying such hateful things about the most wonderful ice cream flavor in the world,” I snap back, grabbing the bag from his hand and throwing myself back on my bed. He climbs on top of me and brushes my hair out of my eyes, watching as they twitch and fill with giddy, panicky love. I can feel my heart beating through my chest. He can too—he grabs my hand and squeezes, the way he only does when he knows I’m nervous.
“Maybe I had a Tourette’s outburst when I said that. You are always insisting that I get checked for Tourette’s, you know.”
“As a joke, my fidgety boyfriend.”
We kiss lightly. Then deeply. He climbs on top of me and breaths in my ear, making every muscle in my body liquefy.
“Well Mint Chocolate Chip has grown on me. I think I may actually enjoy it now,” he moans in between kisses. The tub of ice cream tumbles off of the bed and smacks against the floor, falling open and dripping green liquid on my carpet.
“Really.”
“Yes really, little miss doubtful,” he says, sitting up and grabbing the half-melted ice cream off of the floor. I re-adjust my shirt and try to remember how to breathe as he swirls a spoonful and hands it to me.
“Now sit down and feed me this delicious green vomit with your delicate hand.”
00:00:03.729
When I learned that it actually feels pretty damn good to go after those things that I want
“Where did you get this lovely little skirt from, Maura?”
It’s bright and early, 9:00 am to be exact—which is definitely way too early for me to be going through this emotional rollercoaster of a ride. Stacey, my sorority ‘rush counselor,’ is checking every girl in my group’s outfit and asking elusive questions that could either be considered complimentary or insulting. I think my question was the latter. Her eyes narrow and run the length of my body as I struggle to un-clog my voice from my throat. I know that if I don’t respond to her immediately, she’s going to go off on one of her rants, her voice rapid and stinging like a swarm of pissed off bees. Everyone here talk so damn fast, their voices harsh and laden with smoker’s coughs. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more out of place than I do here in Philadelphia.
“Um, I’m not sure…my mom gave it to me last summer,” I lie. I have no clue where the damn skirt came from. I found it in the back of my closet as I was packing this summer. I feel like a mannequin as I try to pose in a way that makes it look good. I have no clue how to just wear a skirt.
After giving me a low ‘huh’ as a response, Stacey moves on down the line to her next victim. I take a deep breath to calm myself down and glance up at the stunning house that we are standing in front of. Lush greenish-brown trees loom over its roof, letting their dying leaves cascade to the ground and dance in the gentle breeze. The foreign letters on the front look like a backwards seven and a ‘b,’ and if it weren’t for Stacey’s guidance I would have no clue what the name of this house was—Gamma Beta.
Standing here with all of the other rushees, letting each of our outfits get criticized for how big it makes our asses or how small it makes our boobs, I feel my organs tighten. Has my circulation stopped? Am I about to have a brain aneurysm? Why does everyone else seem completely confident, as if they’ve gone through this barbaric event before?
Fuck. I knew I should have doubled up on my anxiety medication this morning.
I swear that hours have gone by since we lined up out front of here for our roll call. I’m not sure how much longer I can just stand here and wait. I feel my legs begin to wobble underneath the weight of my petrified body. It took everything I had (and a little extra push from Owen) to put myself in this situation, and my bravery isn’t on an endless supply—I’m on the verge of being tapped. Stacey has started over again at the beginning of the line, this time playing with hair. I feel numb as she fingers my poor attempt at a straightened style. Over and over in my mind, I’m planning how to field any questions I might face during the party. I’m majoring in Psychology, I have a wonderful boyfriend, I’m from Florida, and I enjoy reading and craft projects. I decided to mask the fact that I enjoy constructing dollhouses with a more generic, snobby-girl friendly term.
Stacey’s done now, and informs us that we’ll enter the house in less than a minute. This is it, Maura. Do NOT fuck it up. I never, ever thoug
ht I would want to be sorority girl, but I do—so badly. Now that I’m out of my hideous Florida town and living somewhere new, I want to belong. I want to not only rejoin life, but also be an active player in it. Plus, the idea of having a new ‘family’ is one that I just can’t get out of my mind. Now that my own has imploded into a pile of shrapnel, I would love nothing more than having a replacement. My heart fills with warmth as I think about it. I try to do some of my breathing exercises to calm my nerves but a rude shout interrupts my thoughts.
A large group of guys are on the lawn of the dilapidated fraternity house across the street, drinking beer and gawking at us. Crushed red plastic cups and random scraps of trash surround them, and many of them are not even dressed in complete outfits. I’m guessing they pulled themselves out of bed nice and early this morning to gape at the fresh meat being paraded in front of their house.
“Hey you, in the back,” one of them shouts from a rickety lawn chair perched next to a cooler full of beer cans. “You’ve got a hot ass. You are definitely a ten! But tell your friend in front of you that her jiggle thighs are disgusting! Two, and that’s being generous!” With that, I watch him high-five several of his brothers and break into a raucous laughter.
They didn’t point out the fact that I look like a misplaced idiot. Holy shit. That’s amazing! I lower my head and smile to myself. Victory!
“Alright girls, this is it!” Stacey calls out with an edge of aggravation in her voice. The frat boys hear her and cower. “Welcome to your very first house of sorority rush! You will see five houses today and five houses tomorrow, so be sure you have just as much enthusiasm at the other nine as you do right now. When you get in there, you will be approached by at least one girl…most likely two or three…so keep your game face on the whole time. We will meet back out here in thirty minutes. Good luck!” With that, Stacey spins around on her heels, glides to the front door of Gamma Beta, and rings the doorbell. Not even three seconds later, the double front doors open outwards in perfect unison and about a hundred girls in matching turquoise and black outfits file out as though they were in military boot camp. As they line up alongside the doors, creating a smile-infused pathway for us to enter their house, I hear them break into a quiet song about love and sisterhood, and I feel more overwhelmed than ever. Stacey flags us up the sidewalk and gives us each a little hand squeeze as we make our way into this perfectly orchestrated abyss.
We stand as one petrified group in the foyer, waiting for the girls to make their way back inside and close the doors. My eyes dart as they surround us, their plastered smiles remaining intact. Without warning, their singing stops and each sister jumps forward towards one of us and grabs us by the hand. It feels as though they are famished whales and we are the unsuspecting crippled penguins that they have been patiently waiting for.
“Hi…Maura!” chirps a platinum blonde who worms her way through the crowd, eyes focused directly towards me. My own eyes widen with nervousness as she steps way too far into my personal space.
“My name is Melody!” she screeches. “And I’m so happy to finally meet you! Let’s go to the parlor so we can talk some more.”
She offers to take my purse from me and hang it on the oversize silver coat rack by the front door, and I swear I see her peek at the label. As she pulls me through the endless sea of girls, I hear every sister spouting off almost exactly the same line to the other rushees: ‘Oh my god! I’m so happy to meet you! I’ve been expecting you!’ There’s a line when we reach the parlor, so Melody and I stand and wait. When her toothy grinning and giggling doesn’t easily push me into conversation as she expected, she leans over and makes small talk with one of the sisters about how uncomfortable her high heels are: ‘OMG, I can’t believe we have to stand up ALL DAY on this heels! My legs are so hurting!’ I rock back and forth on my own incredibly painful heels and try to think of a random conversation topic that I can bring up if need be. What the hell to groups of girls talk about when they get together? Romantic Comedies? Boys? Menstruation? Hate for their bodies?
I lean against the entryway to the parlor and close my eyes to breath. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. There are so many girls around me now, pushing into my arms and smelling like candy and flowers. I feel an extreme case of claustrophobia about to kick in. Melody excuses herself for a moment and I take a few more deep breaths, doing my very best to block out everything around me. It’s one of the few things that my trusty therapist taught me that have actually come in useful on a regular basis. I’m alone, in my room back at home. I’m lying down on my bed and listening to music. No one else is home and won’t be for the entire night. No one will bother me. God, it feels so damn good to just be alone. Feeling a moment of temporary relaxation, I finally allow myself to take in everything around me. From this doorway, I have a great view that allows me to glance back through the entire house—the grand double staircase with the shiny black handrail, the fresh flowers dotting every table, the intricately patterned marble tile…this place is, quite literally, a mansion. There is also a pleasant smell of fresh mint permeating throughout the air, and it quickly awakens my senses.
This place really is…beautiful.
I can do this. I can do this.
“So, what do you think?” asks Melody, who has magically appeared at my side with a glass of icy water and a small stack of crackers.
“Your house is so beautiful…I’ve never seen anything like it!” I chug my water with one gulp and try to drown the exuberant fan girl idiocy that is seeping out of my mouth. I flash a weary smile, hoping that it covers up the fact that my teeth are clicking.
“Why thank you! Come on Maura, let’s go get started. We don’t have a whole lot of time to talk.”
The other rushees and I are led into a muggy, crowded room decorated in pale floral pastels. The marble floors are so shiny that I can nearly see my reflection glistening in them. It’s obvious that someone spent an excruciating amount of time cleaning this place last night in order to prepare for our arrival—but I highly doubt it was one of these manicured girls that got down on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water and a scrub brush. They all look too…perfect.
Everyone is talking so loudly that I can hardly hear as they offer me another beverage—lemonade this time. I’m still hot and thirsty, but suddenly too nervous to accept it. After all of the rushees are pushed past the refreshment table like cattle, we’re led to a set of foldable chairs. Three other sisters join Melody and kneel on the floor around me, making sure to arrange their skirts so they will flow perfectly on the ground as they sit on their legs. I feel like a queen on a throne, looking down at my disciples. They waste no time in pummeling me with generic questions such as ‘What’s your major?’ ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ One girl that just happens to be passing by jumps into the conversation and asks ‘Oh my god? You’re a Yermakova? Like from the grocery store Yermakova’s?’
As I try to smile, show my teeth, and spout out appealing answers in perfect synchronization, I realize just how warm the room is, and I feel dizzy and on the verge of passing out. This is far more intense than I ever anticipated. Each of the sisters is beaming and acting as if my answers are the most fascinating things they have ever heard. And I just can’t bring myself to believe anything a single one of them has to say. No one can possibly be this bubbly.
I can do this. I can do this.
After being pushed to drink two glasses of too-sweet lemonade and another hundred mind-numbing questions, a dinner bell rings and all of the sisters jump up on cue, grabbing each rushee by the elbow and pulling them back out of the parlor.
“Time for the video presentation!” chirps Melody.
There are two other rush groups crammed into the living room. Melody shoves me into the snug group and waves goodbye. I feel my throat tighten again. My eyes dart around the room, looking for what, I don’t know—it’s not like I know anyone else going through this lunacy with me. Everywhere I look I see yellow. I’m dro
wning in a sea of bottled blonde hair. Suddenly I want nothing more than to run. Run away from here and hide back in the sanctity of my own dorm room. I’m so completely insane for even considering the fact that one of these sorority houses would actually want me to be a member.
1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4.
A slide show kicks on and starts flipping through frames on a theater-size screen at the front of the living room. Pictures of girls hugging one another too tightly, showing too much cleavage, and open mouths spewing laughter are scrolling across it with some sappy top 40’s song playing as a soundtrack. I glance around at the vapid girls who all seem to love this video.
“Those outfits are so cute! I love how they match!”
“That looked like it was an awesome party! I can’t wait to have mixers with frat guys!”
“Formal looks soooooooooo fun!”
Their squeals and jumpy hugs are oddly reminiscent of an 8th grade yearbook signing party. And I feel just as uncomfortable and out of place as I did back then.
I’m never going to make it through this.
A black-haired sister is now passing out stacks of guidebook that contain photos of their house and things deemed as ‘important information’—their flower, mascot, favorite date functions, philanthropies—the basic understanding of each of these tidbits of important information is as perplexing as my human anatomy class I barely scuffled through last year. I don’t even understand what the hell a date function is.
I’m officially drowning in sorority world—a world of secret handshakes, songs, and a strange alphabet. A world so different from anything I’ve ever known.
Help.
One of the sisters from the other side of the room saves me from this unnerving situation by ringing the dinner bell again, announcing that the party is over. Each girl says goodbye to all of us rushees by name as they scan their eyes over our nametags, then scamper off to join the other sisters on the grand staircase. As we exit, they are clapping their hands and belting out absurd rhymes, totally confident and totally convinced that Gamma Beta is the best house around.
6 Seconds of Life Page 11